Writing - Fun or Pain in the Ass?

Today I can't decide whether I like writing or not. lol. The stuff I'm coming up with is fun and I like it. IF I can get myself to sit the hell down and write it already.

Maybe I'm just one of those people that groans and moans until the first draft is out, then things magically resolve. I like fixing it, layering and polishing. I just hate getting out the first draft. I tend to do it in massive, caffeine induced spurts to lessen the pain of it. Speaking of which, I will be finished with the first draft of my next book by this weekend. Thank god. It's been pissing me off.

Hmm. I guess this goes back to the thing that writing is hard work. Work I generally don't mind, but first drafts can kiss my butt.

On the flip side, I can't tell you what a rush it is to have a full, polished book in hand and I AM THE ONE WHO WROTE IT. I absolutely love it, so I guess that's what keeps me coming back for more punishment.

Yes, sir! May I have another sir!

Writing Synopses

OK, so I was critiquing someone's synopsis today and it brought several issues to mind. First of all, I don't think there's any preferred method, but I'm starting to come to the conclusion that there's a certain way to writing them so you can convey the main idea, tone, voice, GMC, character, etc. and somehow get all that into 1000 words. What a fucking pain in the ass, excuse my language. I pray someday I'll have an agent who will just write the damned things for me.

In the meantime, here's what I came up with for my vampire book and I think it's pretty good. At least I hope it is. God. Who the hell knows. Some days I stare at these things and think I've lost all sense of perspective. lol.

In which Ella Murphy wins a free vacation but ends up kidnapped by space-faring vampires, carted halfway across the galaxy, and set to scrubbing floors.

Earth, St. Petersburg, FL, 4128 AD

The fates have played a cosmic joke on Ella for the last time. Whenever her family gets a “feeling” about something, their hunches invariably prove right. They have beautiful houses, loving spouses and happiness to spare. But her hunches only got her a crappy job, a sucky ex-boyfriend and a termite-infested house.

Standing in the Gas ‘n Go holding a Scratch ‘n Win ticket, Ella closes her eyes and gets a “feeling” about the silver patch on the left. But she knows better now. The fates can kiss her ass. She scratches off the patch on the right and wins a trip for two to the Saturn Hilton. A hotel orbiting Saturn.

Ecstatic, Ella rushes home to invite her best friend Marie along. Then she calls her boss to ask for time off, but he refuses to give it to her. It’s end of quarter and she’s an accountant. She hates her job, so she quits. If only for two weeks of her short, pathetic life, she’s free.

On the Saturn Hilton, Marie keeps dragging her to musicals and setting her up with boring guys. Ella’s vacation isn’t as fun as she thought it would be. Which is why she’s quite relieved when a ship full of vampires raid the hotel and take her and Marie as slaves. At least she won’t have to look for a new job.

A hotty vampire, Enric Mandruleneau, knocks her off her feet with a scorching kiss. Her aura is the same silver color as his, and the match is reputed to enhance sexual response. He vows to buy her at auction.

Ella and Marie are taken to the vampire homeworld, Sirona, a world where one side always faces the sun, and the other always faces the dark. The vampires live on Darkside, never having to fear the sun, their estates protected in great domes topside.

Ella and Marie are put up for auction. Marie is psyched. She’s hoping she’ll get sold to a hot vampire as his sex slave. She always wanted to be a sex slave. Ella is hoping Enric will buy her. He bids for her, but another vampire outbids him. Marie ends up with Enric, and Ella is led away by a stranger.

Ella freaks out, thinking she is going to be a sex slave to a vampire she doesn’t even like, but when they reach his castle she is set to scrubbing floors. She’d almost rather be his sex slave.

She escapes and uses her psychic gift to find her way through underground tunnels to Enric’s estate. He panics when he sees her. Lord Dragomir, the vampire who bought her, will be pissed if he realizes she is here. It could start a feud between their Houses. He smuggles her to the Borderlands, the margin between Darkside and Sunnyside, and implants her with a false ID chip so she can work on a farm. He can’t let her go without a taste, so he drinks from her and gives her a little blood in return.

This has unfortunate side effects. Every time he fantasizes about her, she is brought to her knees in orgasm. In the lunch line. In the fields. Not even enhanced vision and strength is enough to make up for the ignominy of gasping in pleasure in front of her new supervisor.

Turns out, her new supervisor hates her anyway. They make a pact to help Ella escape to Sunnyside and Ella runs to freedom.

Meanwhile, Lord Dragomir tracks Ella to Enric’s castle and accuses him of stealing Ella. Enric claims innocence, but gives Marie to Dragomir as a peace offering. Dragomir is appalled at Marie’s hot pink aura. Pink is not a dignified color, but he is forced to accept. A human is a human. Marie is delighted. He is hot, and she’s convinced she’ll make him an excellent sex slave.

Back on Sunnyside, Ella is only grudgingly accepted. Her vampire blood makes her “tainted”, but her strength and enhanced abilities are an asset. They threaten to send her back to Darkside if she doesn’t help with their rebellion. On a raid, she gets into trouble. Enric “hears” her and helps her get out of a tight spot.

Back at Enric’s estate, the Queen’s guard takes Enric captive and delivers him to Sunnyside in a coffin. The Queen has discovered that he smuggled Ella to the Borderlands and wants to punish him. Even worse, Ella kicked butt in the raids and she is given Enric as a reward. Keeping him in her underground abode, she chains him to a wall to “get to know him better”.

Back at Lord Dragomir’s castle, Dragomir finds himself unaccountably attracted to Marie. He drinks her blood, only to discover it has “tainted” his aura. Instead of sparkling black, his aura is now tinged with pink. She is delighted. He faints.

Meanwhile, the biggest vampire holiday of the year, the Hunt, arrives. An eclipse turns Sunnyside dark, allowing vampires to reclaim humans. Of course, they could wear protective suits and raid at any time, but it isn’t thought of as sporting. In a moment of weakness, Ella frees Enric, but he turns on her and drags her back to Darkside.

They fight, make up, then sleep together. Ella asks him to make her a vampire so she can have the freedom she craves. He agrees and makes her a vampire in a hot, steamy interlude in his library.

Meanwhile, Dragomir is humiliated by his pink aura and sues Enric for damages. Marie hears of it and tells him this means war. Her dress drops to the floor, and she arches an eyebrow at him. He sighs and pulls her to him, unable to resist her.

The Queen calls them all before her, relishing the chance to bring Enric down. Except Dragomir changes his mind and refuses to testify against Enric. Ella is free at last and lives happily ever after with a hot vampire as her eternal love slave.

Web page

So I've been working on my webpage with the help of my husband. I'm learning all sorts of interesting things. And my webpage is shaping up. I hope to be able to point to it and say it is finished in a week or so. Yay! I swear, I'm only about ten years behind the rest of the universe. I suppose better late than never.

Writers Conferences

I think the only conference I will go to this year is the RWA conference in Atlanta. I go for a few, very specific reasons:

1. To get in front of agents and editors
2. To listen to what the agents and editors have to say
3. To spend time with one of my best friends in the world and share a hotel room with her.
4. To order room service.

Not necessarily in that order. The workshop that they offer are hit and miss for me - a lot of it I already know. But I do enjoy checking things out and meeting new people. So when I balance cost against my reasons, I think the rwa conference is the only one I'll tap this year. Still, I'm excited and do love to go to these things. Woohoo!

The Cadence of Writing

I was trying to explain to a writer friend about the importance of cadence in writing. Her paragraphs were coming off a little choppy, so I suggested reading it out loud and listening to the flow. Wherever it sounds a bit off or trips you up, that's what you need to fix.

It reminds me a little of listening to music. You can't always pinpoint why something sounds right, but you can always pinpoint what sounds wrong. Every sentence, every paragraph, every scene and chapter has to have a flow and be easy on the "ear", imo, and if it doesn't have that then you've got a problem.

Of course, this is all subjective and what trips one person up might not trip up another. Still, I think there's a common ground to be had, and I find that reading my stuff out loud helps me catch a lot of problems right off the bat.

Aha Moments

One of my critique partners is turning out to be extremely helpful. She has a good eye for catching certain things that I hadn't been able to see before. She catches when I drift from "show" to "tell" so I can rewrite it to return it to deep POV. And she's good at pointing out when I need more description sprinkled in to provide visuals to the reader. Now that she's critiqued about half of one of my books, I'm starting to see it on my own which makes me happy. So now I'm going through my books with what I've learned. It's really helping, I think.

Whew. Every time I advance a stage in my writing it is so cathartic. Does this make me a nerd that I get so excited about stuff like this? Too bad. It makes me happy.

Character Motivation

OK, I'm on this list that is discussing character motivation and there's been some really good comments. The most helpful were:

Ÿ Make sure your character has some un-heroic goals. Ones that aren't too horrible, but ones that a reader can identify with.

Ÿ Make sure there's something that they're avoiding. A truth about themselves, or a confrontation, or something that they don't want to face or deal with.

Ÿ So how do you know when to quit asking questions about what your character wants? When can you tell if you've gone deep enough? Once the character has revealed something NON-heroic...something they wouldn't want known by the public, something they'd just as soon not even know about themselves...you've gone deep enough. You can quit. Because now you've got what the character will have to struggle with throughout the course of the book.

Anyway, I find this extremely helpful, because really I think this hits the core of coming up with a good character. Nobody wants a one-dimensional character. Whether you're talking about the hero or the bad guy, it's boring. Even the bad guy should have something they hide, something they wouldn't be caught dead admitting, or maybe something a little bit herioc about them just to make them interesting.

So I've been asking these questions of each of my characters and it's bringing out a depth that wasn't there before. Yay! I will add this to my list of "things to review" when writing a book.

The Tone of a Book

I'm working on a book where the tone of the heroine is primarily humor, and the tone of the hero is alpha male/serious. What I am finding out is that the tone of my opening chapters dominated by the heroine are totally humorous and sarcastic.

Then the tone in scenes where only the hero is in are more like his character - serious with only light smatterings of humor if at all. Then when the heroine gets kidnapped and enters his world, the tone sort of blends, but despite the difficult circumstances that she runs into, humor remains the primary coping method. Especially since her outlook on life provokes him and ends up providing humor as well. At the end of the book the tone evens because they are together, and her influence on him will mean that humor will remain the dominant tone.

What I'm wondering is if it is odd to do it this way or if it will be perceived as uneven. I suppose I'll have to see how it reads once I have it all out, but my instincts say this is OK. It emphasizes his character, her character, and the progression of conflict and humor through the book.

Got another request!

OK, got another request! Good lord. All of a sudden I'm getting all this interest. I'm pretty psyched. Let's hope they like what they see and ask for more.

I had a really good weekend writing. Polished a synopsis for my third book. One which cracks me up to read it so I hope it gives other people the same reaction. And I began work on polishing my third book so it will be as perfect as I can get it should someone ask to see the whole thing. All in all, making progress!

Agents!

Got another request to see a partial, this one on Dreams are for Lovers. I really like this book and hope people see the same when they read it. We shall see!

Here's the first two chapters. Let me know what ya'll think...

Chapter One

Magnolia Hamilton burrowed under the covers and curled into a fetal position, wishing for the umpteenth time she could dream about anything but her parents’ murder. Was it too much to ask? Normal people didn’t have such screwed up nightmares.

But every night for the last eighteen years she’d been forced to relive their screams, forced to see the blood and their staring eyes. Just once she wanted a normal dream. Something dull or mundane, exciting or scary - she didn’t care as long as it was different.

A good sex dream would be nice. A good sex dream with an unbelievably hot guy would be fantastic.

Threatening her subconscious to obey or else, Mags grabbed three sleeping pills off the battered, bedside table, washed them down with water and laid her head on the pillow. Despite the usual impending panic attack, she resisted the temptation to take four. That many would probably send her straight to the ever after, and despite her hellish existence, she wasn’t ready for that yet.

Mags forced deep, even breaths and let her eyes roam over the wall tapestries she’d designed for protection and serenity. Tonight they were providing neither. Sighing, she flipped her sage green, down comforter over her head and prayed the pills would kick in soon so she could have a few precious hours of rest.

Years of exhaustion and fear weighed heavily, body and soul. She barely noticed her shredded, tattered self except when she caught sight of her reflection in a mirror. She always looked like hell, her face sallow, dark circles permanently etched under her eyes. She had no memory of what being well rested and healthy felt like. In her world, a good day meant she needed only one pot of coffee instead of two.

A familiar lethargy overtook her limbs, the drugs forcing her towards unconsciousness. She fought it every step of the way, wishing she could excise the part of her brain that produced such terrible nightmares. Most people welcomed sleep, but to her it was the enemy.

She mumbled a plea to the heavens above. Maybe this time things would be different; maybe this time things would be better. She prayed someday she’d be able to go to sleep without fear. In a small corner of her mind, a stubborn flame of hope burned bright, fighting back despair. She had to believe there was something better out there for her. Even after years of hell, she refused to give up.

Her eyes closed, and she sank into the darkness.

Standing in the middle of her bedroom, Mags’ heart sank at the familiar surroundings.

She was dreaming. The walls were no longer a soothing shade of green, but had altered to a little girl’s pink, hung with pictures of flowers and butterflies. A small, fairy nightlight in the corner gave the room a comforting glow, but she wasn’t comforted. Everything was exactly as it had been when she was four. Even her pajamas were an adult sized version of what she used to wear – a pink fluffy nightgown with bouncing sheep printed at random.

It tugged at her heart to think of the day her mother had bought them for her. They’d been her favorite, but now they were forever linked to blood and death.

Any moment they would start screaming. By the time she reached them, they would be dead. Even in her dreams she’d never been able to change the outcome, and the ending was always unmercifully the same.

Then she would wake up in a cold sweat, shaking from the trauma of reliving what she could not escape. After that, not even sleeping pills could keep her unconscious. Not if she wanted to live.

The rest of the night would be spent drinking coffee until she got the shakes and watching infomercials on the television. She’d drunk more coffee in her lifetime than any human could reasonably expect to survive. She didn’t care. Whatever it took to stave off the nightmares. Precious hours awake made the caffeine-induced headaches worth it.

Mags waited resignedly for what came next, eager to get it over with, but nothing happened. Frowning, she tiptoed over to the door and peeked out into the hallway. Family pictures lined the walls, barely visible in the meager light.

Her parents should be screaming by now, but they weren’t. Hope flared. Maybe something was different this time?

Running full tilt, she swung into her parents’ bedroom and ran smack into a well built someone. She bounced and landed hard on the shag carpet. Swearing loudly, her backside bruised, Mags looked up and her mouth fell open. She squinted in the dark, making out the shape of a man.

A man too large to be her father.

Who the hell was he and what was he doing in her dream? While she welcomed anything different, this wasn’t what she’d had in mind. What if he was the killer and attacked her too? Hadn’t she suffered enough?

She opened her mouth to scream, but he yanked her to her feet and muffled her shrieks with his hand. She fought like a wildcat as he dragged her to her bedroom. She’d be damned if she let her nightmares get any worse.

Kicking out, she braced her feet on the door jam, but he grabbed her legs and jerked them away. Entering the room, he threw her on the bed. She jumped off and hit the ground running, but he caught her around the waist. Refusing to admit defeat, she elbowed him in the stomach and was pleased to hear him grunt in reaction.

“Stop,” he said, his voice breathless. “You cannot interfere.”

“Interfere with what? My parents’ murder? Did you already kill them?” Mags spun in his arms and slapped him hard, her rage spilling in vicious waves. The blow broke his grip, and he staggered back.

Then she remembered she was dreaming. He wasn’t real, and he certainly wasn’t the person who killed her parents.

Which meant she could do whatever she wanted to him.

So she kicked him for manhandling her, then kicked him again out of sheer amusement. After all the years of suffering and praying, how thoughtful of her subconscious to provide someone to beat out her frustrations on.

“Please stop kicking me.” The man hunched to protect himself and winced in pain as she landed another blow on his shin.

“Then let me see my parents!” Mags wanted to reassure herself they were all right, if only in her dreams.

She dove around him, but he caught her and pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her, hushing her quiet as he wheezed in pain. She glared up at him, furious, then stopped short as the dim light of the nightlight shone full on his features.

He wasn’t just gorgeous. He was unbelievably gorgeous.

Instead of her parents’ murderer, maybe he was her sex dream. Maybe her subconscious had ordered him up just like she’d asked. Perhaps she should stop beating him up and start kissing him instead.

Congratulating herself on conjuring such perfection, she drank in the sight of him. He had long, straight, dark hair, and eyes of a light, indeterminate color framed by well-shaped, expressive brows. He looked shocked, although she didn’t know why he would be surprised. He was here for one thing, and she was impatient to get it. Her life had been an isolated, agonizing wasteland. Far be it from her to reject such a gift.

Mags leaned back and continued her perusal of him. He was wearing a white shirt open at the collar. A leather thong hung around his neck, and a small stone dangled from it. She leaned to the side to check out his tan pants and black boots. His getup looked like some sort of historical costume. Odd, but she didn’t care. He looked great in it.

He felt even better. She ran her hands over his hard, tight muscles and pressed her length against all that rock-hard masculinity. He cautiously angled himself away, shielding his groin.

“I can’t let you go. Events must pass as they did before. We cannot change the timelines.” The man paused, his brow furrowing. “How is it that you can see me?”

“Of course I can see you. You’re my sex dream. I can do whatever I want with you.” Despite his odd question, she wiggled against him in excitement. Her dream was different. Maybe her parents were sleeping and safe in the other room. And there was no doubt she had a gorgeous man in hers. He even had a hot accent she couldn’t place.

Ooh.

Her therapist, Natalie, was going to be so pleased. Maybe her subconscious had worked through the trauma at last. Maybe she had a hope of being a normal person. Someday. The thought was exhilarating.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Taran.”

Mags drew a finger down his chest, mesmerized by the hard lines under his shirt.

“That’s a weird name Taran, but OK. Look, I’m going to go check on my parents. You stay here for a sec, then when I come back we’re going to have some fun. You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for something like you.”

Taran blocked the door and cupped her face in his large, callused hands. He murmured words in a language she didn’t recognize.

Taran finished his incantation and waited for her eyes to glaze, indicating she had plunged her back into full dreamstate. They didn’t. He tried a different one, hoping to force her awake. Nothing.

He said the words again, a note of desperation entering his voice, but she merely gazed up at him, her eyes hungrily roving over his features, her expression a mixture of haunted pain and desire.

His mind cycled rapidly through his options. He’d never encountered anyone with such a strong resistance to his commands. At most, people perceived him as part of their dream and forgot him soon after having seen him.

But this one saw him and interacted as if awake, and she wasn’t responding to the usual tricks. It was unheard of for anyone from Earth to have such talent.

Perhaps by playing along with her misconceptions he could prevent her from realizing this wasn’t just a dream. Then maybe he had a chance of walking away from this unscathed.

Promising himself he was going to take a bite out of his boss for this, he sought to distract her from her parents’ fate.

“So you think I’m a sex dream?”

Mags flashed a quirk of a smile, her blush visible in the dim light. “Yup. Stay right here, and when I get back we’ll get on with it, OK?”

She wiggled to free herself, but he had other ideas.

“I think we should get on with it now.” He lifted her off her feet and kissed her thoroughly, soundly, her moans muffled as he tried to drive every sane thought out of her head.

She was adorable and sexy. Her curly brown hair stuck out in all directions; her sweet rosebud lips beckoned for his kisses.

He wished all his duties were so pleasurable.

Mags responded with enthusiasm, parting her mouth and plundering him right back. It was only a dream after all. She’d check on her parents later.

She wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to play with such a delectable dream of a man. Her hands tracked up and down his sculpted back, amazed at how real he felt. She’d never held anyone so fit, so tight. Despite the velvet of his skin, he had the aura of a wild animal, all hard, pent up muscle. She wallowed in his heavy, male scent, breathing it deeply like a drug.

Making a mental note to ask her subconscious for a sex dream every night, she unbuttoned more of his shirt and slipped a hand inside, running her fingertips over the light hairs on his chest. She tweaked a small, flat nipple and shivered as he rumbled into her mouth.

Taran carried her to the bed. Mags considered redirecting him to the living room couch, but she didn’t want to break the mood. She wondered if it was overly kinky to have hot, wild sex in the fluffy, pink bed she’d slept in when she was four. If it was, too bad. A girl like her had to take what she could get.

Taran trapped her against the small mattress with his body, relishing the feel of her curvy, voluptuous shape under his. He unbuttoned the front of her pajamas, laying bare the glorious sight of her breasts, round and full. He drank her in, glad he was already off his feet or he would have fallen to his knees from the decadent sight. She was a goddess.

He thanked the heavens that his job required this of him. Otherwise she would be forbidden fruit, and he did so much want to sample her at his leisure. Guardians were not allowed to interact with people in their dreams, but she was a highly unusual situation. He had to keep her distracted until events ran their natural course.

It was a pleasant way to pass the time until Xavent appeared, then Taran would follow him to his hideout and nail the bastard to the wall for his crimes.

Slipping a nipple into his mouth, he rolled it with his tongue, the taste of her making his head light. The stone around his neck dragged across her belly, leaving a cool, sensuous trail as he moved. Mags buried her hands in his hair, loosening it from a leather tie, the long, silky strands fanning around them.

Arching into him, Mags fought to contain her joy. He was so gorgeous, and she’d been so alone. It had been eighteen years of nightmares. Eighteen years of unrelenting exhaustion and trauma. A sense of relief settled in her soul. Perhaps all the therapy was paying off. Judging from the skill Taran was showing her, the endless sessions had been worth every penny.

Taran parted her legs with his knee and ground himself languorously against her. He glanced up at her face and soaked in her rapturous expression. He frowned, a rush of guilt dampening his desire. She didn’t know this was real, but he did. This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t nice.

Any moment her parents would be murdered, and then she’d hate him forever. This felt like betrayal. He should stop.

No sooner than the thought entered his head, a woman’s scream rang through the house. Mags’ eyes snapped open and widened in panic. She shoved at Taran’s chest with her small hands, frantically kicking him off. He let her go, his heart heavy, knowing it was already too late. He’d studied this case from all angles and knew it would be mere moments before they were dead.

Xavent was nothing if not efficient.

Sometimes he hated his job. Taran ran down the hall after her, determined to catch the man once and for all. It was the least he could do to make up for his treatment of the woman.

“Mama!” Mags screamed as she buttoned up her nightgown, running down the hall, heart pounding. She burst into her parents’ bedroom, breathing heavily, hoping beyond hope that she’d reach them in time.

Her mother lay dead on the floor, her cheek pressed to the carpet, her eyes sightless. Mags’ father bellowed in grief and anger as he struggled with a tall man. This was new. She’d never arrived in time to see who murdered her parents. She ran to help, but her father jerked and froze as the man plunged a knife into his heart.

Mags screamed in rage and flew at her parents’ attacker, but Taran caught her around the waist and threw her out of the room. The door slammed shut, and Mags landed hard in the hallway, stunned.

Undeterred, she rushed to the door and flung it open. Taran tussled with the man, smashing furniture as they fought. Mags grabbed a ceramic, green lamp and cracked it over the tall man’s head. The murderer staggered and raised an arm in defense. Mags stepped over what was left of the lamp to pummel him, but Taran got to him first and slammed him against the wall. Taran turned his face to the corner of the room and muttered words in the same strange language she’d heard before.

A black, sparkling hole appeared, about the size and shape of a door. The intruder shoved Taran back, then leapt into the hole, disappearing from the room. Mags rushed to follow, but Taran caught her by the arm.

“You cannot.” Taran spoke more words she didn’t understand, holding her face in his hands. “You will forget this. You will wake up refreshed and rested. I swear I will get the man who murdered your parents and avenge them. Be at peace. Go live your life and leave this place of death behind you.”

He kissed her lightly on the lips and followed the tall man through the hole. Mags ran to catch him, but it closed behind him and she smacked into the wall. Clutching her bruised forehead, she raised shaking fingers, but felt nothing but drywall. She was alone, the silence deafening.

She turned, loathe to see what she saw every night of her life. Her father lay dead, sprawled in front of the bed. Her mother lay a few feet away, bathed in blood, her wild curly hair matted and dull.

Tears poured down Mags’ face. Nothing had changed. Not even an unbelievably hot guy could make her nightmare go away.

Still, tonight’s events gave her hope. Perhaps Taran would catch her parents’ murderer and avenge their deaths, if only in her dreams. Then maybe someday the nightmares would stop. She had to believe that. What else did she have to look forward to?

Mags awoke with a start, her body drenched in sweat, her heart racing in panic. She scanned the bedroom, relieved to see the familiar green walls and soothing tapestries. Much to her satisfaction, there wasn’t a drop of pink to be seen.

She smoothed her dark green silk pajamas, and swung her legs off the side of the bed. Running a hand through her tousled hair, she gave a shaky sigh, her mind replaying her dream. Taran had told her she would forget everything, but she remembered it all. And despite his exhortation, she certainly wasn’t at peace or well rested. Natalie was going to have a field day when she told her about this at their next therapy session.

Still, progress was progress. Her dream had changed. Excitement and hope spread through her, the unfamiliar feelings buoying her spirit.

Checking the window, she wasn’t surprised to see the moon still up. She never slept through the night, her sleep continually framed by the dark. She slipped her feet into black terry slippers and padded into the kitchen.

Almost happy, the dreary surroundings didn’t depress her as they usually did. Her parents’ house was much the same as it had been when they were alive. She’d never had any money to update it, so she’d left it as it was. Mags felt like it still belonged to them. The couch was a little more tattered, the china chipped, but everything stood intact from the day they had died, a shrine to unfinished business.

The only room she’d remodeled was her bedroom. She’d redecorated it in the vain hope the lack of pink would stave off the nightmares.

Mags brewed a strong pot of coffee, then retrieved a bar of dark chocolate from the pantry. She broke off several chunks, ate several, then stirred a small piece into her coffee, the chocolate swirling on the surface. Nothing like a sugar-caffeine buzz to keep a person awake. Sipping it as fast as she could stand, she made her way into the garage, determined to convert her buoyant mood into art.

She’d changed the garage into a workshop years ago. She didn’t need a place to park a car anyway. She didn’t trust herself with one, terrified she’d fall asleep at the wheel and kill somebody. So she biked everywhere and used the space to weave her livelihood.

A large, wooden loom awaited her. Cheap remnant rugs in shades of tan, brown, burgundy and green covered the cold concrete wall to wall, softening her steps. Fine skeins of wool lay in heaps on the floor and draped over the loom. The room was a cacophony of muted tones by design – she found bright colors jarring to her already frayed senses.

She settled herself onto an old, padded piano bench in front of the loom and placed her mug on a carpet square stained with masses of brown rings. She worked doggedly, combing each weft thread into place, her latest work coming to life inch by painstaking inch. Her loom was an unusual, simple style, not at all like modern looms, closer in design to those from the Middle Ages. She preferred the simplicity, and refused to give it up since it had been her mother’s.

Despite all the hard work that went into her art, she wasn’t sure if she was going to sell her current project or not. Only when finished did she decide if a tapestry belonged with her or someone else. Then again, she’d probably end up selling it. Even a small rug took upwards of three months to create, and she needed the money.

Her eyes closed as she worked by feel, her movements so practiced she could do it in her sleep. Her mind descended into calm meditation as she tied off and changed from color to color, her choices dictated by the ebb and flow of her mood.

The familiar movements helped her deal with the night’s events. The dream had been astonishingly focused and real, so tangible she could remember every touch, smell, and detail as if she’d been there in the flesh. Her dreams had always been unusually vivid, but this one had taken it to a new level.

She wondered what Taran represented to her subconscious that he not only gave her a taste of her wished for sex dream, but had also fought her parents’ attacker. She wasn’t some helpless female who needed a man to save her, yet it had been comforting to have someone there with her. For once, she hadn’t been alone.

For the first time since the murders, she found herself eager to go to sleep again, wanting to know where her nightmare would take her this time. Would it be the same as always, or would something new happen?

Her mind burgeoned with questions and speculations. What was the strange door Taran and the murderer had escaped through? And her parents’ attacker – did he really look like that? There was no earthly way she could know his face since she’d been visiting her aunt the week her parents had been murdered, but stranger things had happened.

She wondered if it would be possible to waylay her parents’ attacker in her dreams and kill him. Such a dark thought, but maybe it would resolve her trauma, allowing her to move on and live a normal life. It was worth a shot.

Mags considered calling Natalie to ask her what she thought, but didn’t think her therapist would appreciate being woken up at four in the morning. No, the exciting news of her breakthrough would have to wait until a reasonable hour. It had long been a source of irritation that no one was ever up at four in the morning, but years before she’d resigned herself to her isolation, at least until the sun was up.

Mags opened her eyes to check her progress. She cocked her head in surprise. The earlier section of the rug was dark and chaotic, a study in the abstract. Nothing out of the ordinary there. She’d never had much luck keeping her rage, fear and exhaustion from manifesting in her work.

But tonight’s small portion was unusual, much like her dream. There were threads of true pattern in it, threads of order. Lighter colors of green and yellow had crept in, giving it a sense of changed direction and mood. She’d bought the colors months ago, hoping she’d reach a point in her healing where she’d be comfortable using them, but up to now the spirit had never moved her.

Interesting. If her weavings were tarot cards, she’d say something was afoot.

Beatrice should see this. She’d be way excited. Making a mental note to call her best friend as well as Natalie in the morning, Mags stared at her work, unable to believe what she was seeing. People considered her tapestries works of art but ones not suited to a happy, sunny atmosphere. Her torment had produced success, having engendered a darkness and complexity that people found compelling.

Perhaps tonight’s work signaled change and transformation. Perhaps Taran was a dream guide, someone her mind conjured up to lead her out of her nightmares and into the light.

She prayed it was true. At twenty-two she was tired of a life that had brought her little but terror and deep, soul wrenching grief. Things had better turn around, or she feared the day would come when her nightmares would drive her to take too many sleeping pills, leaving her body for one of her friends to find. She didn’t want to bring anyone that kind of pain, but her strength was running out.

Change had better come soon or it might as well not bother.

Chapter Two

Taran lunged into the portal and hit the sand crystals running. Pain lanced into his eyes, the glare of the sun a harsh desert mistress. He squinted and sprinted after the young Xavent, the man’s black-clad figure barely visible through the sand ladened winds. Taran focused on the man’s dark head, thinking it odd to see him without grey hair.

Taran tore down a dune, closing the distance. He‘d never live it down if Xavent outran him, and it was best to keep moving. The Gaka lizards were relentless and loved nothing better than a tasty, live meal.

The amber sand crystals glittered in the unforgiving light, the pale blue sky offering a striking counterpoint. Beautiful. Not at all to Taran’s liking, but he’d had no choice in the matter. Somehow Xavent was finding or building portals without the Guardians’ knowledge. This one wasn’t even on the maps.

Taran consoled himself. At least Xavent couldn’t hide here, and the next portal was several miles away. It gave him time to catch up. Taran cursed the gods that he wasn’t allowed to change the timelines and bring in this younger Xavent, but at least the rules didn’t forbid him following the man to see where he led.

Taran relaxed into the chase, thankful he would finally have some answers. He was sick to death of this case. Xavent had been a Guardian until he’d turned his back on Parantha, using his Talents to his own, unauthorized purposes. He’d been hiding out for years, shifting through time and space to elude them.

Taran couldn’t relax until the man was safely in a Paranthan prison. Xavent would have a master plan, a scheme that would keep him free from the clutches of the Guardians. The man was organized, methodical, and unerringly several steps ahead of everyone.

It frustrated Taran that the Imperial House refused to loan him a finding stone, a stone that would have allowed the Guardians to locate Xavent years ago. He’d been denied repeated requests for its use, so Taran had been forced to find Xavent the old fashioned way.

Over the last ten years, he’d investigated the man’s activities and tracked him carefully, determined to end this one way or another. He prayed his current scheme would bear fruit and lead him to the man’s hideout.

Which led him to the current mystery. He didn’t know why the younger Xavent had killed the woman’s parents. They appeared to be no one of import. He didn’t even know their names, but they looked like normal, average, people living quiet, happy lives on a backwater planet. It would require more investigation.

The lack of an obvious reason worried him. Xavent never did anything at random.

Taran’s eyes widened as the young Xavent slid to a stop and opened a portal. So much for this being easy. How the hell was Xavent finding portals that weren’t on the map stones? Taran swore and closed the distance with a burst of speed. He couldn’t afford to be left behind. Couldn’t afford to return home empty handed. His boss would hand him his head for breakfast.

Xavent jumped through; Taran seconds later. As Taran emerged, Xavent spun and upper cut him in the jaw, laying him flat on his back. The man took off as Taran struggled to his feet, his head swimming from the impact. Warm, wet mud dripped down his body, and his feet began to sink. He stepped quickly to solid ground, his nose wrinkling at the rank smell of the bog.

Ignoring the pain, he pushed on, half blind and stumbling over uncertain ground. Taran’s head cleared, and he scanned the area as he ran, searching for clues to his location. Heavy vines hung from odd, fern-like trees. Strange, sinuous eels swam in the water, their beady eyes inspecting him as he passed.

He didn’t recognize this world.

His lungs threatened to seize in the heavy, humid air, but he had to keep up or he’d be lost forever. Without Xavent to lead the way, his spirit would be trapped here, his body left to die a slow death on Parantha.

He forged ahead, splashing through tepid, fetid water, certain there must be another portal ahead. Which meant there were at least three portals unknown to the Guardians – a highly unlikely circumstance. The Guardians had been exploring the known universes, timelines and their respective portals for thousands of years. One undiscovered portal he could understand, but three?

Xavent halted and a black, sparkling door opened in front of him. Taran’s expression grew grim, and he bounded through the portal, praying Xavent was taking him somewhere he recognized.

The new world had purple trees and bluish grass. Ah, yes. Tars.

Relieved he knew where he was, he pounded the soft earth in pursuit, only to spot Xavent opening yet another portal. Make that four previously unknown portals.

Taran launched his body at the man, but instead of turning to defend himself, Xavent shot him a triumphant look and disappeared through the doorway.

Taran hit the portal, bounced, and landed firmly in the grass.

Shocked, he studied the swirling patterns of the door. The portal stood open and appeared to be functional. Why hadn’t he passed through?

He heaved his aching body up and poked at it with his finger. The black sparkling light gave, but the resistance increased as he pushed inward until he could go no further.

Taran realized what he was looking at, and his spirits sank. He wouldn’t be able to follow Xavent through here. The portal had been constructed to allow only its master through. Incredible.

It meant Xavent had a specialized portal stone, a stone so rare the Imperial House owned only three. The stone would allow him to create portals of any kind, anywhere. Either Xavent had found a fourth stone, or whoever was in charge of inventory for the Imperials was doing a crappy job.

Either way, with such a stone, Xavent had the potential to wreak havoc on the universes. The stakes had jumped a thousand-fold.

Taran swore loudly. To follow Xavent, he needed an expert portal cracker. But those people were almost as rare as the specialized portal stones and loyal to the Imperial house, helping out only when the mood took them. Damn.

Then again, a rogue former Guardian with a possibly stolen portal stone qualified as an emergency – one that might be enough to overcome any Royal capriciousness.

Taran retrieved a green map stone from his pocket, the weight comfortingly heavy in his hand. Activating it with his dream mind, the stone projected a map of the portals in the known universes, the lines, colors and shapes floating in the air. Taran poked at the locations he wished to magnify until he reached Tars. With a twitch of his finger, he logged the precise location of Xavent’s portal, as well as the other portals, ensuring he could find them again.

Dropping the stone in his pocket, he manipulated the dreamworld patterns and cycled eighteen years to the future. Trees changed through the seasons and grew rapidly, marking the passage of time until he reached the present.

He held his hand in front of him and used his dream mind to activate the door. It sprang to life. He frowned as it gave him the same resistance, preventing his entry. Still, while this wasn’t the breakthrough he’d hoped for, but it gave him a thread to follow.

Taran turned and hiked to the nearest portal. The day’s work had been fruitful, but his body had been without his spirit long enough. Time to go home.

He walked, head down, deep in thought. The bucolic, pastel landscape of Tars held no charm for him today. He considered conjuring a vehicle, or willing his dreamself into flight, but it was difficult to maintain either effect, and he was tired.

So he spent the time planning his next move and rehearsing what to tell his boss. Halent was a pain in the ass with a temper, but he was fair. Considering all he’d learned today, Halent might not even yell at him.

And then there was the matter of the woman. He was tempted to keep her existence to himself, provided she forgot about her dream. He’d check on her later to make sure she had. If she didn’t, he’d have a whole new set of problems.

Her awareness of him indicated she had talent in the dreamworlds, and the Guardians made it a rule to inform them of any potential students. Those with the gift were usually “adopted” whether they wanted to be or not.

Normally he wouldn’t have hesitated to report her, but she’d looked tired and heart-worn. She’d clearly been through hell, and he didn’t want to add to it by uprooting her from her life.

He wished he knew her name, not that it mattered. To protect her, he’d never let her catch sight of him again.

He wondered if she dreamed-visited her parents’ murder often. People with talent often had trouble controlling their trauma without training, particularly in the dreamworlds. They uncontrollably visited the event again and again, unable to stop the vicious cycle.

As a Guardian, she’d be taught how to keep herself from time traveling in her dreams to her parents’ murders. Perhaps it would be in her best interests to come to Parantha after all.

Well, he wasn’t about to make any decisions today. He’d think about it and decide what to do later.

Taran reached the next portal, opened it with his mind, and walked through. He emerged in a deep, dark forest, the familiarity of the scene comforting. Beams of pale sun broke through the trees, lighting his way along the well-worn path. He made his way from world to world until he reached home – Parantha.

Stepping out into the tropical air, he took a deep breath, pleased to be home. The portal had been formalized with rare white marbled columns and a gabled roof overhead. He trotted lightly down the steps, treading over the stone paths to his home. Palms swayed in the breeze and the air was heavy with the perfume of flowers. The sky shone lavender, a color he found more soothing than the shocking blue of Earth.

Most people couldn’t see him as he passed, but a few Guardians nodded at him as they glimpsed his dreamself returning home.

He cherished this place. He belonged here. He lived to explore the dreamworlds, but he treasured his home above all else. He’d been disappointed when he’d been assigned to Earth – he’d been hoping to be named one of the honored Guardians of Parantha. Perhaps catching Xavent would distinguish him enough to earn a promotion into the Homeguard.

His house came into view - a beige marbled, open aired mansion surrounded by dense, tropical hedges for privacy. His job paid extremely well, not that it mattered. He rarely stayed awake to enjoy the fruits of his labor. His servants watched over him, kept him safe while he worked, leaving him in peace and security. They got to enjoy his house far more than he did.

He trotted up the wide steps into the entryway, wending his way through the house. The large, stone fountains set in the middle of each room calmed his mind, the tinkling sounds soothing his spirit. He found it odd that most Earth dwellers didn’t have fountains in their homes. On Parantha, a home wasn’t considered a home without at least a few.

He half floated into his bedroom. His body lay under light, silk sheets, waiting for his return. He overlaid his spirit into his body, his aura melding with flesh, his consciousness fading as he was overcome by sleep.

He let himself rest as long as he dared, then awakened to face the day. His boss wasn’t going to wait much longer for his report. Xavent was clever, and there was always the danger that a Guardian would get caught in one of his traps, unable to return to his body. Halent would check on him soon to make sure Taran wasn’t in trouble.

Taran wished he had a lower profile investigation on his hands. There was too much riding on bringing Xavent in after all these years. The Imperial House wanted him badly, considering the man had once been arranged in marriage to one of their princesses.

Odd they didn’t help more. They refused to provide a finding stone or any resources to locate the man. The uneasy political alliance between the Imperials and the Guardians became an obstacle in cases like these. The Royals were under no obligation to help. Besides, the Guardians were honor-bound to bring in one of their own, not the Imperial House. Failure would not bode well for his career.

Hoisting his protesting muscles out of bed, he ignored the pain, knowing exhaustion served its purpose. It would help him sleep later when he needed to be back on the job. He’d worked out too hard yesterday, hoping to keep himself unconscious long enough to find Xavent’s hideout before he woke up. It had taken him less time than expected, and his body hadn’t finished resting.

There was nothing for it, though. If you missed reporting to Halent after dreamwalking, you’d better be dead. There was no other acceptable excuse where his boss was concerned.

Taran considered it a testament to the man’s competence that he wasn’t even from Parantha, had spent less than fifteen years immersed in their culture, yet had already made tertiary rank.

Most transplants took years to adapt, but he’d blended in quickly and even changed his name from ‘Hal’ to a more Pananthan ‘Halent’. Some Paranthans were prejudiced against working with him. He had medium talent – even Taran had more – but the man was a genius when it came to planning and motivation. Taran respected him highly and followed where Halent led without qualm.

He dressed in his work uniform of a loose cream tank and black pants. The cloth was light and airy, designed to keep a body comfortable in the warm climate. Retracing his steps through the house, he enjoyed the cool feel of stone on bare feet, the light breeze refreshing as it wended through the spacious halls.

In the entry he slipped on soft, leather shoes and strode down stone paths to the Guardian headquarters, mulling over the best way to break the news of Xavent’s escape and possession of a contraband portal stone.

Halent was going to be pissed.

The headquarters came into view, surrounded by a green lawn and majestic palms. Taran snorted. He had no idea what the hell they’d been thinking when the architects had designed it. The tall, open-air structure had been built from gray marble, a dignified stone, yet it had been carved with masses of flowers, vines, and all manner of plant life, so artsy it looked like it housed a harem rather than a motley collection of ass-kickers. He supposed it was amusing to pretend they had a softer side.

Taran strode through the open, rare wooden doors. Their very existence was a sign of power and wealth. Borer beetles usually made fast work of such a thing and only fastidious attention kept them at bay.

Several Guardians noted his entry, nodded their respect, then returned to work. Heavy wooden tables were covered with charts and maps as they planned out routes. They all looked furtive, their voices low, their eyes glancing nervously at Halent’s office. That didn’t bode well. The boss was in a bad mood.

Just great. Taran glanced up at the tall, marbled ceiling for strength.

A deep, male voice boomed off the walls, berating someone for some sort of infraction, confirming Taran’s suspicions. More often than not Halent was irritable, but he sounded particularly cranky today. Taran waited outside the office, listening to the onslaught. Some poor hapless apprentice had royally screwed up. He remembered well what that was like. Not fun, but there was no room in their line of work for half-assed effort. Not if you wanted to be a Guardian.

The beleaguered apprentice would either wise up, or he or she’d be booted out of the program, simple as that. The timelines of entire worlds were at stake. As rare and valued as their Talents were, they were useless if the person wielding them wasn’t meticulous, reliable and acted with honor.

The barrage stopped and the apprentice, a boy of about fourteen, ran out of the room, his face a little pale. Taran hoped for his sake he’d learned his lesson. They needed every one of the Guardians; they couldn’t afford to lose any of them. To fail the program was a great dishonor, so fortunately it was rare anyone fell short of the mark. Halent merely tortured them until they measured up.

Taran stepped into the room, steeling himself against his boss’s temper.

Halent glanced up at Taran with an absent-minded grimace. His marbled desk was scattered with parchment, and the map stones were rocking and projecting at wild angles. The man’s light brown hair had half escaped its leather tie, and his clothes were stained and rumpled.

Taran supposed the man worked too hard to care for his appearance. Halent was focused, driven, and sharp as a tack. He even spoke their native language with barely a trace of accent. Rumpled or no, Taran would have to handle this interview carefully.

“Please tell me you have him,” Halent said.

Taran winced. “I don’t. I followed Xavent’s younger self to Earth, but he has somehow managed to acquire a specialized portal stone. I counted no fewer than four new portals as I traced him through several worlds. Then on Tars he jumped through a portal that wouldn’t let me through. I literally bounced off it. We’ll need a portal cracker to open it.”

Halent sat with his mouth hanging open, a vein on his forehead pulsing in time with the beat of his heart. Taran feared someday that blood vessel was going to burst right out of the man’s head.

“That’s it? You’re sure the world’s not ending too? Dammit Taran, where the hell did he get that stone?”

Taran held his chin up, refusing to be cowed. “I don’t know, sir. Since it was the younger Xavent I tracked, it looks like he’s had it at least eighteen years. He either got them from an unknown source or the Imperial House doesn’t want to admit they’re missing one.”

“I’ll send out discreet inquiries.” Halent slammed the desk in frustration, sending the map stones rocking, the images wildly whipping through the air. “If the Imperial House is missing a stone, we have to handle the information carefully. If we embarrass them in any way they’re going to take an Imperial dump on all our heads. It’ll take years to get rid of the stink.”

“Yes sir, my thoughts exactly,” Taran replied, fighting not to laugh. The madder Halent got, the more colorful his language. The man was famous for it.

Taran cocked his head hopefully. “While you’re at it, you could petition for a portal cracker. I’m positive whatever’s on the other side of the Tars portal will lead us to Xavent.”

“And you think the Imperial House passes those people out like candy? You know better than that.”

“I don’t see how else we’re going to get through.”

Halent stood up abruptly, his chair rocking back, and leaned into Taran, pinning him with a forbidding expression. “Too bad. We’ll get no help from the Imperial House. They’re too caught up in their own dramas. And if they’re missing a stone, they may secretly not want us to find Xavent because it might embarrass them. We have to find some other way to get through that portal. So find it.”

Taran suppressed a sigh. The discussion was over. After long years of working for the man, Taran knew when he’d hit a wall. He shot his boss a disgruntled look but saluted his agreement to the man. “Yes sir.”

Halent’s expression softened at Taran’s frustration. “I know this isn’t your area of expertise, Taran, but if we ask the Imperial House for a portal cracker, they’ll want to know why. If they don’t want us to find Xavent for fear of exposure, they’ll block the investigation and we’ll be worse off than we already are. Find another way.”

“Understood sir,” said Taran. Halent was right. Involving the Imperial House was probably more trouble than it was worth.

Walking stiffly from the room, his back ramrod straight, he glumly contemplated a whole new set of problems. Taran had little talent at portal cracking, but now would be a good time to revisit what little skill he had. He didn’t see any other way to solve the case. He had to get through that portal. Everything hinged on it.

He returned to his house and to his bed, settling back into the oversized pillows with a contented sigh. He burrowed into the feather mattress, his aches and pains receding as he relaxed into sleep. He closed his eyes and the woman’s face unexpectedly swam in his mind, her cute little upturned nose bringing a ghost of a smile to his face. He let her image lull him, wishing he could go visit her instead of having to work.

Once deeply asleep, he detached his dream spirit from his body and made his way back to the Tars, present time. Taking out his map stone, he let it guide him until he found Xavent’s portal. He willed it awake and it sprang to life, the black, sparking light obediently appearing in front of him. He touched it, but it was the same as before, gently resisting any attempts to enter.

He sat cross-legged, closed his eyes, and meditated on the patterns within. He studied it, recognizing Xavent’s influence. The complexity of the patterns was bewildering. Taran doggedly sorted the threads, determined not to fail Halent, but the more he understood the intricacy of the construction, the more he had to admit he was in over his head. He was good at solving mysteries, tracking criminals and policing Earth, but teasing out the solution of a well-constructed portal had never been his forte.

He ripped up fistfuls of blue grass and whipped them into the air, frustrated. Success was so close he could taste it, but the colors were dizzying, the puzzle too intricate. He understood the general idea of what Xavent had done, but it only gave him an appreciation of just how out of his depth he really was.

He kept working until he sensed his body fighting to wake up. Sighing, he rubbed his neck and returned home. He’d come back later when he’d tired himself out again. As of now, cracking this portal was his only goal in life.

If he didn’t, his hope of becoming a member of the Homeguard would remain a distant, untouchable dream.

The rest of Chapter Three

OK, here's the rest of chapter three...

Elder Printin planted himself heavily in his office chair, livid. That maniac had almost killed him, and his throat was painfully sore from the abuse. He’d underestimated Quoi and it was humiliating.

He’d sent parties of townspeople out to search, but the man had vanished into thin air. The irony of the town’s one Tracker on his way to Lumax did not escape him. It forced him to hunt Quoi the old fashioned way until a Tracker could be called in to help. Whatever it took. Quoi could not be allowed to reach Rasa.

He could kick himself for blurting out the truth to Quoi. He supposed a man’s head didn’t work as well with the oxygen cut off.

If Quoi managed to find Rasa, well, Printin didn’t want to think about it. He had too much at stake for one stupid man to ruin it.

He waited for news, hoping beyond hope they would announce Quoi’s capture, but with each passing hour his optimism faded. He needed a backup plan.

Fredi, his assistant, burst into the room. “Elder! Braden is here to see you. He says it’s important.”

“Well show him in for god’s sake!” Finally, some luck. Maybe Braden knew where Quoi was. Fredi showed him in. “Braden,” Printin modulated his tone into a state of calm, as if nothing were wrong in his world. “What brings you here today?”

Braden shifted on his feet, uncomfortable with the fancy surroundings. Books lined the walls and the desk was the finest Shaped maple. The room was wealthy by Galena standards, and he gaped like the country boy he was. Printin was dressed in his morning robes, a deep rich green linen, and the man’s speckled black hair was glossy and trimmed.

Despite the civilized surroundings, something about the man made Braden nervous. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Braden cleared his throat to speak, wanting to get this over with.

“Sir, I had a conversation with Quoi after the sentencing. Thought you might want to know what he said.”

Printin fought to keep the impatience from his voice. “Go on.”

“He said we weren’t safe. That Rasa wasn’t working alone. He sounded like he knew what was going on,” said Braden. “And now that he’s disappeared, well, I thought maybe he went to get Rasa.”

The Elder sighed in disappointment. “Of course he went to get Rasa! They’ve been friends since they first learned to walk. What else did you think he was doing?”

Braden stepped back, taken aback by the Elder’s anger.

“But sir, he said that it wasn’t just Rasa behind the disappearances. Ain’t you curious about what’s going on?”

The Elder grimaced. Braden wasn’t going to give him any useful information. “We all know Rasa is always into something he shouldn’t be. Why would this time be any different?”

Braden hesitated, not wanting to anger the Elder. “Sir, Quoi was concerned, like maybe Rasa was in over his head. Like maybe someone was forcing Rasa do what he did.”

“No, I’m convinced it was just those two. Quoi was trying to cast suspicion away from them both.” He had to nip this in the bud. He couldn’t afford any suspicions the townspeople might have. A few well-placed lies should solve the problem. “Look, this isn’t public knowledge, but from what witnesses told me, Rasa and Quoi harbored jealousy against the eight missing Metal Shapers. They found a way to get rid of them. We only had enough evidence to convict Rasa, so we resolved to keep an eye on Quoi to prevent him from doing any more harm. It’s as simple as that.”

Braden shifted on his feet, wavering in his resolve. “I guess that makes some sort of sense. I mean, Rasa was more than a little jealous when Quoi discovered his Stone Shaping Gift, and they were good friends. I suppose it could have happened that way.”

“That’s exactly what happened, I’m afraid.” Printin stood and pasted a sad, sympathetic look on his face. “I understand how difficult it is to accept this from people we’ve known since birth. But there’s the ugly truth, plain for anyone to see.”

“All right. Thanks for explaining.” Braden shuffled his feet and stared at the floor.

“Fredi, would you please show Braden out? Thank you for your time, Braden. And if you hear anything else, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

Fredi led Braden from the room. Printin made a mental note to keep an eye on the man. These days you never knew when people would do something foolish. He disliked all this unpredictability.

He sat down with a huff, the chair creaking under his weight. The Elder pulled out some sheets of parchment and began to write. It was imperative he get Quoi back in his control. He would send missives to all surrounding townships, hoping someone, somewhere, would spot the man and bring him in. Quoi’s distinctive, amber eyes were his weakness. It would make it easy for people to identify him.

Printin finished the missive and called to his assistant. Fredi came running in, bouncing with energy, filled with excitement over Quoi’s disappearance. Galena was normally such a quiet town. “Yes, sir?”

“Take this and make seven copies, one for each township,” said Printin.

“Yes sir,” the assistant bobbed and took the missive from him. He scanned it and then cocked an eyebrow in surprise at his master.

“Just do what I say, boy, and don’t you dare breathe a word of it to anyone. Get out of here.” Printin waved him away, irritated and exhausted by the energy of youth. The boy ran out of the office, happy to have something important to do.

Printin tipped back in his chair, worried. It angered him that everything could come crashing down around his ears because of one, stupid ex-farm hand. This had better work or he’d be the one headed to Lumax.